Alien Contact for a Christmas Nutcracker

Alien Contact for a Christmas Nutcracker

by

Edward Hoornaert

http://eahoornaert.com/

Originally published as Alien Contact for an Enhanced Nutcracker

Copyright October, 2019 by Edward Hoornaert

All rights reserved

This novel is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, places and incidents are either

the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Editing and cover design by Danielle Fine: http://www.daniellefine.com/

ISBN: 9780463839881

Dedication

This book arose directly from my orchestral experiences, so I’d like to dedicate it to the Civic Orchestra of Tucson and the Kamloops Symphony Orchestra. Those two groups have heard the bulk of my playing, for better or worse. Sorry for the wrong notes, folks!

This is the second time the KSO figured in one of my books. In The Trial of Tompa Lee, I traded the orchestra to aliens in exchange for a starship. This time, though, I’ve let the orchestra members remain on Earth. I guess I’m mellowing.

The map of the future

Chapter One

Time: Six years from next November

Place: A dark, rainy side street in Tacoma, Washington

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, Holly Jansen said to the thug.

The thug didn’t answer.

The age of wisdom, the age of… Her voice trailed off. Trudging through the first winter storm of the year wasn’t conducive to quoting Charles Dickens. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but it’s the best of times because, well, Black Friday is over and it’s now the Christmas season. The time for Christmas miracles.

When a gust splashed her face, Holly bent her head into the biting rain. Yeah, we need one of those, maybe two, but this is my favorite time of the year. Yours too, Thug?

No answer came from inside the cat carrier.

The rain made the side street in front of her former apartment seem dark and threatening. It was cold, close to freezing. Close to snowing, too. A drop, suspiciously solid, hit the tip of her nose.

Reaching a fire hydrant, she balanced the carrier on it while she unzipped her rain jacket and wrapped it around the cat carrier. Icicles of wind shot with vicious joy through the open coat and assaulted her t-shirt. Tacoma wasn’t supposed to get this cold this soon. She didn’t have gloves, scarf, ear muffs, or a winter coat, because she hadn’t gotten her winter clothes out yet.

And now she couldn’t. They were behind a padlocked door. Might as well have been on the moon.

She couldn’t see the fat tabby through the top of the carrier, but she kept talking, hoping her voice would soothe the wet cat. Where was I? Oh yeah, the best and the worst of times. The worst is easy. Now.

Thug mewled piteously.

No, I told you, this isn’t my fault. Which wasn’t quite true—she could’ve chosen a more practical and lucrative career than conducting an orchestra. Like flipping burgers at McDonalds.

A gust of wind, arctic gods laughing at her, turned her coat into a sail; she held onto both cat and coat with difficulty. I gave my half of the rent money to Deidre every month. How was I to know she was keeping it for a one-way flight back to Perth?

Squinting against needles of rain, Holly tried to find her car, which was silver and Japanese and looked like half the cars parked on this street. She wouldn’t see it until she was on top of it and the remote clicker hadn’t worked for months. It didn’t help that a streetlight was out.

Of course a streetlight was out. The only thing missing was an earthquake.

Not far now, Thug.

She frowned. Now she wasn’t just talking to her cat, she was lying to it. If a woman couldn’t be honest with her cat, who could she be honest with?

As though to punish the lie, the northern gods turned the rain into sleet. Holly never swore—well, hardly ever—but she thought some nasty things about her lying, stealing Aussie roommate. Ex-roommate.

There’s the car, for real this time. Soon, Thug, I’ll turn on the heater and you’ll be warm as a freshly caught mouse.

Her hands were so cold she dropped her car keys into icy water running along the curb. She went to hands and knees, in a puddle of course, to get them. When she finally snagged the keys, it was too dark to see the keyhole so she felt for it with fingers so numb they couldn’t have felt a chainsaw.

Eventually, though, the cat carrier was buckled into the passenger seat and she was sitting, and dripping, in the driver’s seat.

There, didn’t I tell you? Her teeth chattered.

Thug yowled, a heartbreaking cry of despair that made her throat tighten with pain. She didn’t deserve getting locked out of her apartment but Thug really, really didn’t deserve this.

She put the key in the ignition. Turned it. The starter clicked.

Just clicked.

She tried again then again. It didn’t even click. This wasn’t the first time the car had failed to start in the rain, but it was the worst time.

The worst of times…

Unable to deal with yet another disaster, Holly sat and stared straight ahead. This can’t be happening, Thug. It’s not real.

Her family was comfortable, not wealthy, but everyone was an achiever. Her mother was a wedding dress designer who’d run her own modest little shop. Her father: retired creative robotics consultant for some of hi-tech’s biggest names. Her brother: lawyer. Her sister: doctor. Aunts, uncles: all successful. Jansens simply did not get locked out on cold, rainy nights. If Jansens were to get locked out, it would be on a sunny spring day because six months ago they’d planned for this very possibility.

Am I being a snob, Thug? Jeez, I hope not. We celebrated every holiday by helping out at soup kitchens the family funded, because Mom didn’t want us to become snobs.

Still, if it looked like snobbery and quacked like snobbery… The heat of shame tingled across Holly’s cheeks. The unavoidable truth was that Jansens achieved.

Except for one of them.

Oh, aiming at conducting a symphony was Jansen-family ambitious, but her achievements were un-Jansen-like failures.

Sleet drummed on the roof. Holly’s shoulders shook as a shiver wracked her body—the first signs of hypothermia. If she felt this way, how much worse must it be for poor Thug? He could die.

She pulled him out of the carrier and held him against her belly, giving him what little warmth she had. After a minute, though, her cold-slowed mind finally started working, and she lifted her shirt so he rested against her skin rather than the wet cloth.

Oh jeez!

Each hair on his obese body felt like an icicle. He must’ve been taking lessons from the guys she dated, too, because he immediately put his cold head onto her boob.

Unlike her dates, she left him there. But after this, I’m becoming a dog person. You think I’m kidding, but—oh jeez, you’re so cold!—but I’m not.

Her phone buzzed.

Deirdre, explaining it had all been a mistake? Mrs. Peterson, calling to say the school had found the money to bring her back as a substitute music teacher after all? The director of the Chicago Symphony, begging her to take over the orchestra?

Holly fumbled the phone out of her purse. She read the caller’s name, rubbed her eyes, and looked again. It still said the same thing.

His Majesty King Eaglesbrood of Kwadra.

A prank call? Her voice started weak but rose to a scream. Now?

Usually she ignored telemarketers and pranksters, but here was a target for her wrath. She answered the call and spoke full blast: What the fuck do you want, asshole?

Silence. It lasted long enough to realize this was the second time in her adult life she’d used the F-word. It left a sour aftertaste, as though she’d forgotten to brush her teeth the morning after the night before.

Which reminded her. Her toothbrush was locked in the apartment.

Is this Miss Jansen? Holly Jansen, the conductor? The man’s baritone had a light, untraceable accent that was noticeable more in the rhythm of his speech than his pronunciation.

Uh. Squeezing her eyes so tightly shut they hurt, she lowered her forehead until it touched the frigid steering wheel. Yes, she whispered. Who is this?

Please don’t let it be who the phone says it is. I’ll do anything within—or even close to—the bounds of my personal morality.

My name is Tro Eaglesbrood—

Holly groaned. She’d used the F-word to the alien king from an alternate Earth? One of the most powerful men in the world? She pounded her forehead against the steering wheel.

"—and my aides were given your name by the Kamloops festival where you conducted a Nutcracker performance for several years. Also, Professor Peterson recommends you highly."

The names sank through the ice that coated Holly’s consciousness. The Nutcracker? Doris Peterson, her former conducting professor? This man had researched her thoroughly.

Holly raised her head. Yes? Her voice sounded almost sane.

"They all recommend you as a talented but underappreciated musician who might be available on short notice to conduct a performance of The Nutcracker ballet here on Kwadra Island. I want to surprise my wife with a gift reminiscent of her homeland, the Kwadran queen was from Seattle, on